Close your eyes, he'll be there
by kimberleighe
Summary: After the funeral, John kept moving. Everyone seemed to expect him to just curl up in the flat and disappear. He was a soldier. People died. Life never stopped. After the first year, Sherlock faded to just a lingering pronoun. Cross-posted to AO3.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

After the funeral, John kept moving. Everyone seemed to expect him to just curl up in the flat and disappear. He was a soldier. People died. Life never stopped. There were still bills to pay and groceries to buy. He moved to a new flat with a roommate who never did anything remotely interesting. St. Bart's offered him a temporary post as an instructor; he accepted. Every day he looked at the roof; every night was spent pissed out of his mind. One morning, he woke up with a blonde in his bed and cigarette smoke on his breath. Now, he barely even noticed the smell. Of the cigarettes, of course. The blonde had been replaced by a brunette, or redhead, or perhaps even another blonde. They all blended together nowadays.

Two weeks after the funeral, the tremor in his hand returned. At first, it was just a shake every now and then that he chalked up to long days at work. It was only troublesome when he tried to write on the board. Now, he could feel the consistent quivering all day. After that, the ache in his leg increased until he was using the cane again. He didn't go back to the therapist.

After the first year, Sherlock faded to just a lingering pronoun.

John stumbled out of the diner and into the cold. He frowned up at the looming clouds, pausing to turn up his collar against the faint drizzle. No cabs. Just his luck. He fumbled through his pockets, locating a cigarette and his lighter. Two flicks of a lighter and a deep breath later, he frowned at the cigarette in his hand. Tomorrow, he told himself, he'd quit tomorrow. He'd been repeating that mantra for months. John checked the street one more time before beginning to limp resolutely towards home. By the time he reached his flat, the drizzle had turned into a downpour and he was soaked through. John eased himself up the stairs of the flat. Cane, leg, step. Cane, leg, step. It was an easy rhythm now.

"John? Someone's here to see you." His flat mate, Sam, was in the kitchen washing dishes. From the delicious smell in the flat, he must have cooked dinner.

Sam cleaned up every mess he made. It annoyed John to no end.

"Who?" John peered towards the sitting room. "If it's that girl—"

"Well, it was a girl and him initially. That one you work with. Mandy? Mary? No, Molly," Sam said, waving a dish towel. "She left a good hour ago, but he stayed. Refuses to move." Sam's voice descended into mumbled curses.

John sighed, and moved to the sitting room. His damp clothes hung tight and uncomfortable, but served as the perfect excuse to get whoever it was out of his flat.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting. I didn't realize I was expecting company." He glanced once at the chair back, leaning his cane against the wall to peel off his jacket.

The irritated sound of disapproval froze every muscle in his body. He could only stare at the chair. His hand dropped from his jacket lapel to blindly find his cane for support. His ears had to be playing a cruel trick on him. Slowly, Sherlock Holmes unfolded from the chair, straightening his shirt, and then jacket. John's hand clenched the curve of his cane so tight, he was sure the wood would splinter. He couldn't take his eyes off the phantom. Part of him lingered in disbelief. The other half (actually a larger part of him than half) was relieved. Sherlock's gaze lingered on the cane disapprovingly.

"Leg acting up again, I see." Sherlock brushed invisible lint from his shoulder.

"You…" was all John could manage. Relief was fading wholly to anger.

The edges of Sherlock's lips curled up in a humorless smile. He crossed the distance until they stood toe-to-toe. John closed his eyes hard, rubbing at one with the heel of his hand. Sherlock was still there when he opened them. John's thoughts consisted of various repetitions of the word "fuck".

"You don't understand," Sherlock sighed. "Why am I always the only one that sees?"

John resisted the urge to throttle him. Barely.

"I saw you fall." John looked away when his voice broke.

Something had changed in Sherlock's eyes when John finally met his gaze again. The calculation had receded, and John thought he saw a hint of regret. Within the span of a blink, Sherlock's expression was carefully ambiguous again.

"I told you it was a trick," he began.

The condescension in Sherlock's tone broke the last bit of restraint John had. His heart pounded hard between his ears. He didn't hear a word Sherlock said after that, acting on the one instinct that made sense. His fist connected firmly with Sherlock's jaw. An unsuspecting Sherlock stumbled back, hand automatically rising to his face. John kept his fist clenched, glaring at the man who he'd seen crumpled on the concrete; the man he'd buried. Sherlock smoothly returned to his former stance toe-to-toe with John. John fought the urge to shove him back. Too close. Everything was too close.

"I suppose you believe I deserved that." Sherlock rubbed his jaw.

"You. Utter—" John's chest heaved angrily and he swung again.

Sherlock ducked this one, slipping behind John to wrap his long arms around John's chest. John twisted out of his grasp, cane clattering forgotten on the floor. He launched himself at Sherlock, and they were rolling on the floor, fighting for dominance. John swung furiously at Sherlock, only growing more enraged as Sherlock managed to elude his fists. He wanted Sherlock to hurt.

"John! Stop, stop!" John was forcibly pulled off Sherlock by Sam. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"Nothing," John wrenched his arm away from Sam, glaring at Sherlock.

John paced the floor, glaring down at Sherlock. Sherlock ignored John, scowling fiercely at Sam. Sam picked up John's cane, gaze moving between the two men. John grunted as pain shot up his thigh. Sam quickly held out the cane.

"I think you should leave," Sam said to Sherlock once John had the cane in hand.

Sherlock's gaze moved to the space around John. John shook his head.

"Sam, we're fine. Thank you." Translation: fuck off, Sam.

The brief twitch of Sherlock's cheek relayed that he had correctly interpreted John's tone.

"Really? You were boxing in the sitting room. If he's bothering you—" Sam persisted.

"Please go away," Sherlock interrupted, waving a thin hand dismissively. "He's fine, just experiencing mild shock." Sherlock sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "Surprisingly, he will calm himself with a smoke. Tut, tut, John. That's a nasty habit."

"I'm going to change," John muttered, suddenly remembering he was dripping all over the floor.

"Please do. We are needed elsewhere," Sherlock replied.

John ignored him, limping off. He was secretly glad to hear Sam's chastising tones aimed at Sherlock as John stripped off his wet clothes. He sat on the bed in just his pants with a sigh, trying to organize his thoughts.

So the facts were such: Sherlock was not dead. He was alive. He was currently in John's sitting room.

Still being determined: Would he kill Sherlock for being an outright asshole? It was too bad Mycroft would intervene. Unless, of course, Mycroft did not know… John snorted and shook his head. Of course Mycroft knew Sherlock was alive.

Decided: He would go with Sherlock.

That, the unconscious decision already made to leave with Sherlock, scared John more than the facts or unknown. He'd seen the man die and resurrect himself, but he was still willing to follow him.

"I must be mad," John muttered.

The logical thing to do was kick Sherlock out and never speak to him again. Yet, that wasn't what John wanted to do.

"I am mad." He rubbed his face with his hands roughly.

"Yes, yes, you are," Sherlock barged into the room, slamming the door behind him. "How can you possibly live with that man?"

It was completely lost on Sherlock that John was nearly naked. John looked down at his hands, pursing his lips as he considered his response.

"Didn't have much of a choice, did I?" he finally said.

Two long strides placed Sherlock sitting on the bed beside John. John glanced up briefly at Sherlock before settling his gaze on something safe, like the wall just to the left of Sherlock's head.

"Look at me, John." Sherlock's murmur barely crosses the air between them.

John just shook his head.

"No." He felt his jaw tense. "Fuck you, Sherlock. You can't just walk in here—"

"Why not?" John knew Sherlock was probably studying the door for a literal deterrent. "Oh, I see. Would you like me to find you a pair of trousers?"

"Why not?" John repeated incredulously, and his voice rose in pitch. He cleared his throat before forcing himself to speak evenly. "You've been dead, Sherlock. I saw you…" And then he began shaking his head. He pressed his lips tight, pinning back all the words and emotions that he could not allow escape.

All the words and emotions that Sherlock now freely observed in the twitch of John's hand, the nervous facial movements and, most telling, in his eyes. They were silent for a long time.

"I see," Sherlock murmured. His knee bumped John's leg as he rose.

Anyone else might have missed the disappointment in Sherlock's tone, but not John. Now Sherlock's eyes were averted to the floor, searching the boards for something. John rubbed his head with a sigh, pushing to his feet to stop Sherlock from sweeping out of the room. His grip was too tight on Sherlock's wrist.

"Don't." He took a breath, hoping his voice didn't sound as desperate as he felt. "Don't leave."

John knew if Sherlock left now, they wouldn't speak again. Sherlock tightly nodded, glancing to the door.

"We have an appointment, Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, pointedly sweeping his eyes over John. "I suggest you get dressed."

Sherlock didn't leave the room while John dressed. He huffed and sighed as John rummaged through a drawer for a clean pair of socks. His phone beeped and Sherlock was distracted for a millisecond.

"Mycroft is impatiently awaiting us," he announced.

John reached for his cane. Sherlock made another noise in his throat.

"No."

John glared at Sherlock and opened the bedroom door. In the light, John could see the bruise darkening on Sherlock's jaw.

"Ready then?" John motioned for Sherlock to exit first. Once Sherlock swept past, John retrieved his cane and limped after him.

"John, this is him, isn't it?" Sam was waiting for them in the sitting room. His lips twisted in a frown. "That detective? Holmes?"

"Your skills of observation are astounding," Sherlock intoned dryly.

"Don't have the time to explain now, Sam." John interrupted whatever it was that Sam had been about to say. "We're off."

John gently shoved Sherlock towards the door. The wool coat felt familiar under his fingers. He grabbed his jacket, swinging it around his shoulders awkwardly as they exited onto the street. Sherlock surprised him by holding John's jacket so he could slip an arm into a sleeve. John murmured thanks, straightening his damp collar. Sherlock nodded stiffly, reaching into his coat pockets and producing two cigarettes and a lighter.

"We don't have far to go," he explained, offering one to John.

His eyes cut towards the black sedan on the other side of the street. Ah yes, Mycroft. Apparently, Sherlock was no longer in a hurry to be off. John fought the smile twitching at his lips and took the cigarette, tapping the filter against his palm before raising it to his lips. He fumbled in his pockets for his lighter, caught off guard when Sherlock politely offered his. Once John was finished, Sherlock lit his own, breathing the smoke in deep before exhaling into the night sky. John sucked in a breath, relishing the familiar burn in the back of his throat.

"So," John leaned back against the building, watching Sherlock intently.

"You're teaching now," Sherlock returned the gaze.

John reveled in the deducing stare. A faint smile turned up the edge of Sherlock's lips.

"You've been in Germany," John replied.

John knew he would lose this game, but it was worth playing.

"No girlfriend. Or boyfriend," Sherlock returned.

"We both know that girlfriends are not your area." This time the smile played at the ends of John's lips.

The tense line of Sherlock's shoulders began to round and smooth.

"You hate your flatmate, and with good reason. He is borderline neurotic," Sherlock said.

"Says the sociopath," John snorted.

Sherlock's grunt sounded more like a choked laugh. He tossed his cigarette butt into the street with a quick flick of his wrist. He motioned towards the car.

"Shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

John slid into the seat beside Sherlock, fighting the wince at the increased throbbing in his leg. Their tussle in the sitting room had overworked the muscle; it would only get worse in his experience. He situated his cane between them, a thin shield against the knowing gleam in Sherlock's eyes. The car smoothly pulled away from the curb and into the traffic. Sherlock's profile was lit by the dim gleam of his mobile. There was a scar on Sherlock's neck that hadn't been there the last time they'd seen each other. The white line disappeared down into his coat. As if he felt the gaze, Sherlock adjusted his scarf, hiding the mark from further examination.

"So." John pursed his lips, looking around the car interior and then expectantly at Sherlock. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat.

"Not important," he answered, never taking his eyes off his mobile.

"Not important?" John exhaled a dry laugh. "Is that going to be your response for all the questions I ask?"

"Only if they're boring," Sherlock replied.

John took another look around the car, fighting to keep his placid expression.

"Fine. How long will this take? I've got class in the morning." John tried again.

Sherlock sighed, looking up from his phone to stare at John. Then his gaze returned to his phone. John tapped his fingers on the seat, again taking stock of the car interior (black leather seats; open partition between the passengers and driver).

"Alright, obviously you have this idea of what I should be asking you. Go on then," John said.

Sherlock slid his mobile into his pocket, turning his head to regard John. His cool gaze swept over John again.

"You're angry. Expected since you feel betrayed. You truly thought I was dead, but here I am, and you're mad that I didn't confide in you. You want to know why, how, yet you won't address the issue at hand. Typical for you. A bit passive aggressive, if you ask me." Sherlock rolled the window down a bit, looking out at the passing street lamps.

"Oh, you want me to address the issue? Yes, how should we begin that conversation? Glad you're not dead, but thanks for letting me think that for fourteen months. It's been brilliant." John reached for his cane unconsciously.

Sherlock's hand bumped his, intentionally keeping John from holding onto the support. John just stared at him, hand mid-air. The seconds of silence were deafening. Instead of speaking, Sherlock lit a cigarette.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put that out." The driver's sudden voice startled John.

Sherlock leaned forward and closed the partition in answer. Then his attention returned fully to John.

"I am sorry." Sherlock paused between each word. "It was the only way."

"No, no it wasn't," John replied fiercely.

Sherlock's gaze cut at him. His chin tilted up slightly, a familiar indicator of disagreement.

"It was the only avenue I was willing to pursue," Sherlock said quietly.

"What about the path where you were not dead? What about that one?" It was odd how he noticed at this very moment that his leg had stopped cramping.

Sherlock took a long drag off the cigarette and offered it to John. John shook his head, not about to get distracted.

"The effects would have been worse." Sherlock's tone felt faint, as if he was drifting away with the smoke.

"How so? Nothing would have changed, Sherlock. We'd be at Baker Street. You'd be taking only private cases, and I'd be….what now?" Sherlock had started shaking his head as soon as John uttered the phrase "nothing would have changed".

"I'd be at Baker Street, yes." As if that statement explained it all.

"And I'd…" John's mouth formed an o, and his gaze flicked to Sherlock. Sherlock watched him evenly, before returning his attention to the street. "So what happened on the rooftop?"

Immediately, John knew he'd found the question Sherlock had wanted him to ask all along. Sherlock passed over the half-smoked fag.

"I underestimated the lengths Moriarty was willing to go to in our game," Sherlock said, his lips twisted in a way that revealed the bitter taste of the word "underestimated".

"Papers said his death looked like a suicide," John replied.

He ignored the other headlines that popped up when he thought of the month after Sherlock had died. Well, not died, since he was clearly alive.

"Gun in the mouth. Messy," Sherlock said reproachfully.

John leaned his head back against the headrest, breathing in the nicotine. He looked at his hand, barely suppressing a glimmer of amusement. It was steady for the first time since the funeral.

"Well, good to know he won't be coming back after us," he glanced at Sherlock. "When are you officially coming back?"

"Few loose ends to tie up first, John," Sherlock answered. "I'm assuming then we're good? Isn't that what you normal people say?"

John laughed. It wasn't a weak, humoring chuckle, but a full-on, loud laugh. Sherlock looked concerned and pleased at the same time. It wasn't a good look for him.

"No, no, Sherlock, we're not good," John replied. "But we'll make do."

Sherlock patted John's thigh with a quick nod.

"Good." The relief was momentarily clear on the detective's face.

Sherlock returned to his mobile for the duration of the trip. John pulled out his, slowly poking at the screen in an attempt to call, well, text, in sick to work the next day. When the car came to a stop, Sherlock exited the car without a word leaving John no choice but to follow. Sherlock led the way into the drab looking office building. John limped quickly in order to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"Do you have your gun?" Sherlock murmured as they stopped before a door.

Panic settled over John briefly. He'd left it at the flat.

"I didn't think we'd need it," he answered.

Sherlock titled his head and raised his eyebrow.

"A gun is always appropriate when meeting with Mycroft." He pushed inside without knocking.

Mycroft's gaze leveled at them and he held up a hand to indicate silence, pressing the mobile closer to his ear. Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. Mycroft sighed inaudibly, looking to John as if it were his fault that Sherlock was not compliant. John looked away, taking in the bland office. Other than the desk and a few chairs, it was a far cry from the other office Mycroft had. Off the books meeting, then. A few quiet words and Mycroft terminated the call.

"Please, sit." The order was directed at Sherlock. "Hello, John."

John tightly nodded at Mycroft, gingerly settling in a chair. Sherlock took up position behind it, but not directly. He stayed in John's peripheral vision. Mycroft's thin smile betrayed his veiled disdain.

"I trust you two have made up?" Mycroft glanced at his brother.

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft before sullenly looking away. Well, that hadn't changed. John rubbed his nose and cleared his throat.

"Why am I here exactly?" he asked.

Surprise briefly flitted across Mycroft's face. John caught Sherlock's shrug and furtive glance in John's direction.

"Honestly, Sherlock. Must I do everything?" Mycroft sighed.

"Ha!" Sherlock huffed.

The elder Holmes retrieved a file from his desk. John moved to stand, but Sherlock stepped forward first, taking the file and then handing it to him.

"Thanks," John said.

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. John flipped through the file, taking in the pictures and information with a frown.

"These men are dead," he finally said.

"Indeed they are. Fourteen months ago, we were alerted to a threat. Two of these men have been dispatched," Mycroft began.

"Hold on," John interrupted. "This man was in our flat." He looked up at Sherlock. "When I left Bart's, he was fixing that fixture in the hall that Mrs. Hudson was always on about."

The room fell silent. Mycroft's gaze was fixed on his brother. John twisted to look fully at Sherlock.

"Three men, John. One for Mrs. Hudson, that one," Sherlock said quietly, indicating the picture.

"And, how exactly did he die?" John flipped through the pages.

"The autopsy reveals exsanguination was cause of death," Mycroft answered.

The photos also showed the cleaned cut puckering across the man's neck like a wicked smile.

"The other was killed by a single shot to the head," Mycroft continued. "Unfortunately, the last sniper is proving difficult to locate."

"Your extensive resources cannot find one man?" John said dryly as he closed the file.

Mycroft stretched his neck with a fierce frown.

"Not when he is employed by New Scotland Yard," Sherlock answered. "And I can't just stroll in there. Dead, remember?"

"How do you know he is employed by Scotland Yard?" John asked.

"There was a sniper intended for the Detective Inspector. Given certain factors, it is logical that the individual must be in somewhat close contact with him," Mycroft answered.

"What do you need me for?" John rubbed his forehead, feeling the ache growing behind his eyes.

The sudden predatory smiles on both brothers' faces made John instantly regret he even asked.

Sam was thankfully gone when John returned to the flat. Sherlock hung his coat in Sam's place, straightening his cuffs before sweeping through the rest of the flat. John stood in the sitting room, still processing the past four hours.

"I'll take tea," Sherlock stated before taking a seat in John's chair.

"Didn't realize you were staying," John replied.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrests of the chair.

"The most well-hidden place for me is in plain sight. Completely logical, John." There was that tone. The one that indicated that Sherlock's observation was basic and John was an idiot for not seeing it. It still conjured up the overwhelming need to punch Sherlock in the face, but this time, John let it slide.

"Where do you plan to sleep?" John shuffled into the kitchen.

"On a case, John."

"Oh, this constitutes a case?" John switched on the electric kettle.

"Of the highest priority." Sherlock stood in the threshold.

"Lestrade would be chuffed to know that." John reached for mugs, pulling down one for him.

He pushed some of the cups about before snagging the one he'd kept from Baker Street, Sherlock's plain navy mug. Sherlock just mumbled something before turning on his heel. John heard his bedroom door open and shut.

"Not bringing you your tea, Sherlock," John called.

The silence was a familiar answer. John smiled to himself, really smiled. He would have laughed, but Sherlock would have heard. When the tea was finished, John took his and the morning paper to his chair. He settled in; Sherlock would be out for tea. Without fail, Sherlock breezed back out, having utilized John's shower and stolen a t-shirt. His wet hair created a crescent on the back of the thin t-shirt.

"Could have asked," John turned the page.

Sherlock settled on the couch, snagging the paper John wasn't reading. John glanced at him once, and then went back to his reading. Triple murder. No suspects. John made sure to hand that page to Sherlock when he was done. Couldn't have him getting bored in here. Sam would have a fit if anything was out of place, or if say, heads appeared in the fridge. He could feel the weariness descending and fought it for as long as he could. When his head fell back against the rest, he barely registered the warm blanket thrown over him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

The lecture hall was quiet apart from the rustling of paper and scratching of pens. There had been the musical interruption of a mobile at the beginning of the exam. John had sighed, sending a disappointed frown at the student. Other students had furtively checked their mobiles to ensure they would not suffer the same interruption. Every minute counted. John bit the end of his pencil, his brow furrowing as he continued grading another research paper. He was being lulled into boredom by faulty logic and bad grammar. His own mobile lit up with a silent indication that a text message had been received. John frowned at it, debating whether or not to check it. He knew who it had to be from. Sherlock had taken to texting him intermittently throughout the day. Random facts and bits. Sometimes about Sam's housekeeping habits. _He's cleaning AGAIN, John. I can't think with all his hoovering._ Or _You have red pants?_ That had been returned with a clear threat to Sherlock's laptop privileges if John's pant drawer was not left alone immediately. There had been the highly hilarious _I'm out of the closet, if you care to know._ Of course, Sherlock had meant it literally, but John had taken the opportunity to make a few quips. All over Sherlock's head, but amusing nonetheless.

John managed a brief smile at the student turning in an exam. His gaze returned to his phone. His fingers itched with the overwhelming desire to check his mobile. It was that same anticipation he remembered from before. Secretly, he had missed it. With a steady hand, he took the mobile in hand, navigating to his texts.

_In your office. Hurry._

The final ten minutes took years to pass. John quickly gathered up all the papers and his cane. He barely used it, completely focused on reaching his small office. He slid inside, and immediately stopped. Sherlock sat at his desk, feet resting on the top as his fingers moved quick across his phone screen. It wasn't Sherlock's appearance that surprised John, but rather his hair. Sherlock's dark hair now resembled more of Mycroft's lighter auburn color. Sherlock scratched at his chin sporting the latest attempt at a beard, glancing briefly at John before returning his attention to his phone.

"Someone could have seen you." John pushed the shoes off his desk, placing the load of papers in their place.

"Doubtful," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Still, you have to—" John knew he wasn't fooled by a hair color change and facial hair.

"I know how to move around unseen, John," Sherlock interrupted, and then drew his mouth together tightly.

It was deathly silent in the room. Hurried footsteps echoed past them outside the door like marching ghosts. John maintained eye contact with Sherlock before looking away and tucking his chin towards his chest. He let out a breath, feeling his fingers tap the desk twice.

"Right. Sure. Why are you here?" he asked.

"I didn't intend to spend my afternoon in the closet again." John cleared his throat to offset his laugh.

"You wouldn't have to stay in my closet if you had your own rooms," he replied.

Sherlock sighed theatrically, acting as if John had said something incredibly stupid.

"No, too risky. Someone might see me." Sherlock leaned back in the chair, gazing at the wall with a scowl.

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His head leaned back and he focused on the ceiling.

"I have to grade papers, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked twice and then snagged the top paper off the pile. He flipped through it quickly.

"Copied. Every word."

John frowned, picking it up and looking over his markings. He'd spent the better portion of the exam reading this particular essay. Well-written and researched, he had given it top marks.

"Copied? How?"

"Look at the first letter of some of the sentences. Different font. Could be a mistake, but given the frequency, it is more logical to believe that the text was copied and pasted from a website," Sherlock replied quickly.

John quickly verified Sherlock's observation.

"Amazing," he muttered, glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock's slow smile warmed John. John found himself unconsciously returning it, part of his chest aching at the familiarity. A loud laugh outside the door caused them both to look away. By the time John returned his attention to Sherlock, the man stood close to him. John tilted his head, fighting the urge to step back.

"As always, John, you see, but you do not—"

"Observe, yes, Sherlock. I haven't forgotten," John breathed with a laugh.

"Good, that's," Sherlock paused. "Good."

"Well, now that that's sorted. Dinner?" John checked his watch. "We have a good hour before Sam returns to the flat."

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"I know just the place."

The place ended up being across the street from a crime scene. John paused on the sidewalk, catching sight of many familiar faces. Panic shot through him at the thought of anyone recognizing the man with him. He put his head down in an attempt to slip inside the diner unseen.

"John?" Lestrade stood near a patrol unit.

John turned his head slightly, but Sherlock had disappeared. Well, no use trying to blend in now.

"Greg." John pushed forward.

He hated the way Lestrade's gaze lingered on the cane, hated the pity that tried to hide in the Detective Inspector's eyes. This was why they'd stopped going for drinks. It was why he had stopped talking to his sister. He didn't need pity; he was fine. Now.

"Never thought I'd see you at a crime scene," Lestrade pushed his hands into his pockets.

Again. The word was left unsaid, but it lingered palpable in the air. Lestrade shifted on his heels, offering John a brief smile.

"Didn't expect to choose a take-out across from a crime scene. What happened?" John replied.

"Murder. Forensics is in there now," Lestrade said, and then looked thoughtful. He lifted up the yellow tape. "Come over."

John glanced over his shoulder again, scanning the faces nearby. No sign of Sherlock, but John knew he had to be close. John limped under the tape, quickly following Lestrade towards some officers.

"Dr. Watson?" Donovan stood guard at the door.

John didn't return the pleasantry. Lestrade cleared his throat, motioning someone over.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, this is Sergeant Davies," Lestrade said quietly.

John nodded quickly to the man, holding out his hand. Dark haired and easily forgettable, something about him irked John.

"Hello," Davies took his hand firmly. "I used to read your blog."

John caught the tensing of both Donovan and Lestrade at the mention of the past. He forced a smile, and then felt the vibration in his pocket. John instinctively pulled it out.

_Right or left handed?_

Davies wore his watch on the right wrist. _Left_ he typed back, and then apologetically smiled at Lestrade.

"Sorry. Flatmate," he explained, lifting the phone with a shrug.

Donovan just shook her head and looked away. Davies seemed curious.

"If you're done, I'll take you inside," Lestrade replied.

"Sir?" Both Donovan and Davies looked surprised.

"He's a civilian, sir," Davies began.

"My call, Sergeant," Lestrade interrupted sharply before continuing in a quieter tone. "This is the fourth one like this in a week. We'll be crushed if the press gets wind of this."

"With all due respect, sir," Donovan tried.

"I'd stop there." Lestrade opened the door, motioning John ahead of him.

Another vibration. John sighed and pulled out his phone, reading as he followed Lestrade down the hall.

_Not fair._

John could hear the petulance in the words.

"Chatty flatmate, eh?" Lestrade held out a pair of gloves.

"He has his days," John replied.

When Lestrade turned towards a room, John quickly put in a call to Sherlock's mobile and put the phone back in his pocket upside down. Hopefully Sherlock would be able to hear everything. This could hopefully keep Sherlock from dismantling the hoover and letting John grade his papers in peace. Or so he could hope.

It was an hour before John emerged from the crime scene. John rubbed his face and checked his watch with a sigh. His thoughts immediately returned to Sherlock. Was he still there? If so, where? John began looking over the passing faces.

"Dr. Watson, Lestrade asked me to drive you home." Davies fell into step beside him.

"Thanks, but I'll just get a cab," John replied dismissively.

He caught sight of an auburn head. Maybe? It was too far for him to be sure.

"Think it's best if I drive you," Davies persisted. John's phone vibrated. "I don't think you should answer that."

"Why?" John bristled.

It was then he realized the change in movement of the officers. No one was near them. Davies shifted closer to John, an understated threat in the squeeze of John's shoulder. John tried to pull away, but Davies' thumb worked its way into the dip of John's scar and pushed. John grunted at the sudden pain.

"Come along, Dr. Watson. Let's get you home." Davies guided John towards a car.

The _don't get in that patrol car_ text went unread.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

Sherlock flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street with a scowl. His eyes never left the two men as they got into the patrol car. Going to the crime scene had been a calculated move. He needed to see the people around Lestrade. The new faces and old ones. How they reacted to John's presence. How John treated them. His stiff stance towards Lestrade spoke volumes, just as Lestrade's uncomfortable posture had screamed guilt and pity and a whole lot of emotions that Sherlock despised. But how did he not see Davies? The name had been on the list, but disregarded. Well played, Moriarty. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number reluctantly.

"Track John," he said by way of greeting when Mycroft answered.

"Busy at the moment. I'll have—"

"His location is crucial, Mycroft," Sherlock paused, feeling his face tighten before the next words left his mouth. "He's found the last sniper."

John blinked quickly, hoping it might help dissipate some of the pounding in his head. No relief there. An attempt to move his arms revealed they were tightly tied to chair armrests. He tested his legs and found them equally tied to the same chair. This, of course, explained the pain shooting up his legs and across his shoulders. He wet his lips, sharply assessing his surroundings. Davies had handed him a syringe once they were in the car with an order to administer it. The Sergeant had been far from forgettable, his face lined with a cold calm and his eyes lit with sinister humor.

"Where are we going?" John had asked calmly, rolling up his sleeve slowly.

It had been briefly discussed, what John would do if the sniper found him first. Now John wished he'd pressed a bit more when Sherlock said measures were in place. The needle pinched into the vein easily and John didn't hesitate before pushing the plunger down.

"Somewhere we can talk," Davies answered.

The empty room definitely would provide that. John tried to shake the lingering numbness from his mind.

"Oh good, you're awake, Dr. Watson." The voice sent a chill down his spine.

A shadow broke free from the wall, coming into the dim light filtering through a high window. John stared. Right. He had to be hallucinating. He closed his eyes hard, hoping the room would be empty when he opened them. Or, better yet, this would be some nightmare he could wake up from.

"Oh, don't play coy, John." Fingers tipped up his chin.

He had no choice but to stare at Jim Moriarty. It had crossed his mind that if Sherlock survived, but no, Sherlock had given no indication that he believed Moriarty to still be alive.

"You're supposed to be dead," John stated flatly.

Moriarty's brows rose and eyes widened in dramatic shock.

"Well, no one told me." He smirked, taking a few steps back. He kicked at a loose piece of the floor nonchalantly. "How have you been, John?"

John pursed his lips, clenching his jaw tight.

"Why am I here?" he asked full well knowing the answer. There was only ever one reason he was kidnapped.

Moriarty sighed, fixing John with a disappointed gaze.

"Why, I missed you, John. Didn't you miss me? We had such fun the last time we saw each other," Moriarty answered. "Wasn't my acting superb? I thought even Sherlock believed me."

John felt his entire body tense at the name. Moriarty's sharp eye caught it.

"But you, John, you didn't doubt it for a moment," Moriarty waved his finger in the air. "So, that leads us to the issue at hand."

"Which is?" His leg was starting shake from the pent up anger beating through him.

"Where is he?"

John clenched his jaw tight, returning to training from a former life.

"He's dead." His voice did not skip over the words.

Moriarty clucked his tongue with a sigh as if he saw through the lie.

"You saw him fall, Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes is alive, and you're going to tell me where he is." Moriarty snapped his fingers. Two men entered the room from the right. The bright light blinded John for a moment, long enough for Moriarty to lean down and whisper in his ear. "You're going to tell me, and then you're going to die."

From that moment forward, time ceased to be counted in seconds, minutes, hours, or days. Instead, it was measured in brief blackouts between alternating and excruciating levels of pain.

"What is the point of this if you cannot find one man?" Sherlock raged as he paced the floor of Mycroft's office.

His hair was wild and his light eyes searched the walls as if the answer would materialize before him. Three days. It was like John had disappeared. Oh, Moriarty was keeping this hand close to his chest. He had to know the ruse.

"I have all of my people working on it, Sherlock," Mycroft replied calmly.

Sherlock scoffed. His brother's façade didn't fool him. Mycroft had checked his phone every thirty three seconds. He had rescheduled three high-priority meetings. He was beyond worried; Mycroft was concerned. It showed in the loose crease of his slacks, bags under his eyes and biscuit crumbs at his elbow.

"I contacted Quentin," Mycroft continued.

Sherlock's head lolled forward and he expelled his breath loudly.

"Don't bring him into this." He rubbed his face roughly.

"He wants to help, and his resources are invaluable," Mycroft replied.

"I thought your resources were invaluable and they have failed," Sherlock snapped.

His hands ran through his hair, leaving it in tangles and odd angles atop his head. His thoughts moved in miles. They wouldn't stop. Every scenario he concocted ended in the morgue and he was identifying a body. _"He's my friend."_ The words echoed in his mind, but he readily pushed aside the accompanying sensory information (John's face, the trembling fingers at his wrist, the way John crumbled). It was no use to him right now.

"You brought him into this, Sherlock." The censure was clear in Mycroft's tone.

Sherlock's head whipped around to glare at his brother. He briskly strode to his brother's side of the desk, leaning in until their noses brushed.

"Find him, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed.

"Or what? You'll tell Mummy?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Hardly," Sherlock huffed. "I have other methods."

"Pathetic, Sherlock," Mycroft's phone vibrated on the desk.

Twenty-two second intervals now. There must be a development. Mycroft snatched up his phone before Sherlock could.

"Possible location for Dr. Watson. Teams are moving in now," Mycroft said quietly.

"Where?" Sherlock grabbed his scarf from the chair back.

Mycroft's lips were a thin line when he looked at Sherlock. The younger man slowed the looping of his scarf around his neck, narrowing his eyes at his brother's expression.

"I think it's best if you stay here."

"Where." The word was clipped.

Mycroft stood slowly, no, wearily.

"Sherlock." One word told him everything. Body. Identification required. No hurry in securing the building for hostage safety.

It took three men to separate the brothers.

"Dead," John kept mumbling.

It didn't really matter what he said at his point.

"Dr. Watson." Moriarty's distant voice became clearer as John returned to consciousness.

"Dead," John mouthed, not bothering to lift his chin off his chest.

The steady point of a knife following the bullet's path through his shoulder tore a horse yell from his lips. Moriarty's cheek rested against John's as he lovingly twisted the blade. John panted and let loose a series of sounds that betrayed the utter weakness he felt.

"It never mattered if you told me, John," he whispered. "You were always going to die this way. I made him a promise."

John's chest heaved violently. He clenched his jaw so tight, he was sure his teeth would shatter. Moriarty's fingers brushed over John's head like a lover's caress.

"Good bye, Dr. Watson."

He immediately knew he was no longer alone. Sherlock blinked through the haze of whatever drug Mycroft's men had used to neutralize him. Surroundings: interview room, table, two chairs, he was currently on the cot in the corner. One chair was occupied.

"You shouldn't have hit him."

Sherlock fought a groan as he sat up. He glared at the man sitting across the room. Slim fingers raced over the tablet screen, lighting up the familiar face in cold shadows.

"He sent you to placate me."

A small smile turned up the corners of the man's mouth and he looked up at Sherlock from under his mop of dark curls.

"Since it's always worked before."

Their gazes met. Quentin's presence always conjured up hazy memories that had been mostly forgotten. Today though, he remembered a small hand in his and a smile. Sherlock pushed to his feet and unsteadily made it to the other chair.

"Quentin, I see you are enjoying the perks of your latest promotion."

Quentin watched Sherlock from over the tops of his black rimmed glasses.

"And you are verifiably not dead. I appreciated the postcard." The screen of Quentin's device went black.

"It was your birthday."

"Surprised you managed to remember. You deleted Mycroft's."

"Extraneous information."

"I sign his card from both of us," Quentin laughed.

"I'm sure he's aware of the ruse, brother." Sherlock rubbed at his face. "Tell me."

Quentin's face went from easy-going boy directly to an emotionless operative. He adjusted his glasses, fixing a piercing stare at Sherlock.

"Warehouse. One body." Sherlock felt his fingers clench into fists. The table covered his physical response to the news, otherwise he remained passive.

"Identity of the body?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Not Dr. Watson," Quentin did not delay in his response. While Mycroft would have talked in circles for days, Quentin provided information immediately. It was one of his most endearing qualities.

Sherlock's whole body sagged back into the chair. He leaned his head back to gaze at the ceiling. The endless white did nothing to ease his racing mind.

"I need to get out of here, Q," he muttered.

He needed a cigarette and quiet. Preferably together. Quentin stood, rummaging in his pockets and producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"How coincidental. I find myself needing to smoke. Care to join me?"

Sherlock followed his brother silently out of the room. He decided that not lifting the mobile in Quentin's pocket was the best way to show his gratitude. Anyways, he could always take it later.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Sherlock paced behind Quentin's chair. His brother was slouched over a pair of laptops, alternating his attention between them. Video feeds of London were being relayed here. Quentin searched them all with ease. He multitasked efficiently, taking calls and sending off emails without losing focus. The quiet in his brother's makeshift office allowed Sherlock to think. One week had passed. Statistically speaking, John's chances of survival had been dismal to begin with. Now, they were past nil; they were looking for a body. Sherlock scratched his chin, peering at the screen over his brother's shoulder. Anything to divert his attention from the annoying idea of fault. It'd been drifting in the edges of his thoughts, but now it circled more and more persistent. No, no, it was not his fault. John knew the risks. Yet, for all the rationale behind the explanation, it seemed hollow.

"Stop reading over my shoulder, Sherlock," Quentin muttered, clearly annoyed.

"Hong Kong?" Sherlock replied.

"Not your business," Quentin fixed Sherlock with a glare.

"Agent then," Sherlock huffed.

"You're not supposed to know about that." Quentin returned to watching London.

"Well aware. I'm also supposed to be dead. Do you see the trend?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That can be easily remedied," Quentin raised a brow. "Shirley."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed indignantly. A smirk played at the edges of Quentin's face. Sherlock grunted at the childhood nickname (some things wouldn't stay deleted. That was the problem with siblings) and went to the window. He cracked it open, listening to the patter of rain on the pavement outside. He absently tapped out a cigarette and lit it, mechanically going through the motions. His pacing stopped when his mobile beeped loudly. His adrenaline raced when he noted the number was John's.

_Come and get your doctor. I'm done playing._

Sherlock quickly typed back a response.

_Where?_

His phone rang. Quentin groaned at the interruption, looking over his shoulder at his brother. Sherlock answered it, but didn't say a word.

"You're still breathing, Sherlock." The playfully devious tones seemed to sing in his ear. "You didn't play the game fairly."

"Neither did you," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Touché. I suppose you want your Doctor back? I've had my fill of fun with him, and fun we did have, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his lips purse at the suggestion, his whole face tightening with rage. By now, Quentin's full attention was on him. In a second, Quentin began typing, obviously attempting a trace on the phone call.

"Where is John?" He put the phone on speaker, placing it softly on the desk.

"He'll keep, but not for long," Moriarty replied. "I suggest you tell your adorable little brother to desist the trace. I'll have to pull some strings in Hong Kong."

Quentin's face paled, and he had turned off the program in an instant. His phone was out, no doubt texting superiors or whoever it was Quentin answered to. Sherlock hadn't yet worked that out. It didn't matter right now.

"I want to know he's alive," Sherlock said.

"Cross my heart, he is."

"You'll understand if I don't believe you," Sherlock replied. "Now, where. Is. John."

Each word was said separately, his teeth bared at the phone.

"I made you a promise." The voice was at a whisper. "Consider us even, for now."

The line went dead.

"No, no, no, no, no." Each word became louder and more desperate. He quickly redialed, but it went straight to voicemail.

Where? The pool was too easy, too populated. Same with St. Barts. Think, think, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John's voice telling him to leave a message.

"Sherlock," Quentin placed a hand on his shoulder after the third redial.

Sherlock twisted his shoulder away immediately. He strode away, sure Quentin would be two steps behind him. There was only one place left to go. Home.

The quiet car ride was punctuated only by Mycroft's sharp tones. Sherlock stared out at the passing city lights. Each flash of light tore another hole into his thoughts. How had he not seen this? Davies. So blatant, so easy.

"Mycroft, officers are responding to 221 Baker Street with a medic unit," Quentin intoned, having hacked into the dispatch feed for New Scotland Yard. Sherlock felt his brother's gaze. "Two male victims, one dead."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was out of the car the second it stopped. The exterior was lit up in red and blue lights. He slipped under the yellow tape, coming face to face with Donovan. She stared agape at him. He didn't even bother with her. She was insignificant, always had been.

"You can't just—" Sherlock assumed Mycroft would placate the situation.

He broke into a run, pushing open the door and up the stairs. He threw open the door to the kitchen first. It was empty. Then he moved into the sitting room and came to a standstill. Lestrade was knelt beside a chair, frantically moving. The Inspector's shirt was already blood soaked.

"You," he shouted at Sherlock, not bothering to look at him. "I need something to stop this."

Sherlock moved forward. He knew it was John. Aside from Lestrade's telling expression, he immediately recognized the trainers. John hadn't bought new shoes in ages. Now they were rust stained. He'd never wear them again. Sherlock could feel the numbness spreading from his fingers to his chest. Shock was setting in.

The medics pushed past him. Lestrade pushed back from the chair to let them take over. He used his wrist to wipe at his face, visibly perturbed as he came to stand beside Sherlock. The Inspector didn't say a word, instead watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Sherlock's feet heavily crossed the distance until he was standing over the medics. All he could see was red in all varying shades. Little drops of pale pink that led to the deep crimson. A transfusion was imminent.

"Sir, Mr. Holmes is downstairs insisting to talk to you. His agents are already taking over the scene." Donovan strode into the room.

"Shit. Find me a towel or something," Lestrade lifted up his hands.

For a moment, Sherlock looked at the blotchy stains on the palms of Lestrade's hands. Lestrade glanced between his hands and then Sherlock's face.

"I was the first one up here," he trailed off, taking the towel from Donovan.

Sherlock watched the medics hurried movements.

"Lestrade, what about him?" Donovan obviously meant for Sherlock to not hear.

He turned his head slightly, glaring at her.

"I was dead, not deaf, Donovan," he said. "Where is the other body?"

Donovan looked horrified at the request. Lestrade blinked, furiously rubbing at his hands with the towel. Clearly, he was debating on his next action. Sherlock didn't have time for moral crises.

"Bedroom," he tipped his head to the stairs. "One of my team, Davies."

Sherlock felt his cheek twitch. How boring of Moriarty. He left evidence. He took one step towards the stairs before looking back at the medics. He needed to go upstairs before anything was touched or moved. But he was unwilling to let John leave this flat alone.

"Inspector?" Quentin strode into the room, followed by a few black jacketed agents.

Lestrade wearily looked towards the young man.

"We'll be taking over from here. Please direct your officers to me for debriefing," Quentin finished.

"And who the hell are you?" Lestrade asked gruffly.

"Above your pay grade, Inspector," Quentin answered smoothly. He glanced at Sherlock. "Where is the other body?"

"Upstairs. Don't let them—" Sherlock's attention was diverted by the sight of John's body on the stretcher board.

He looked so pale. Sherlock was already computing the statistical likelihood of survival. Not good.

"I won't. I'll text you the photos," Quentin interrupted.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. Quentin raised a brow, adjusting his glasses and fixing his brother with a steely gaze.

"Have a bit of faith, will you?"

"If they bungle this," Sherlock began.

"Yes, yes, yes, threat received. Off you go," Quentin pushed Sherlock off.

Sherlock was one step behind them down the stairs to the ambulance.

With a hoarse yell, John awoke, struggling through the pain to sit up. Immediately, hands were pushing him down, strange voices ordering him to be still and lie down. _Mr. Watson, please, Mr. Watson!_ All he could hear was Moriarty's last words echoing in his mind. _Good bye, Dr. Watson_, _good bye, good bye_. He thrashed against them, pulling at the cords that attached him to machines. So many machines.

"John, John, stop!" Only one voice invaded his sheer panic.

It brought the white hospital room into focus. Sherlock was a black interruption, his slim fingers slipping around John's wrist.

"You'll give yourself a heart attack at this rate." Sherlock's smile was forced.

John's hand tightened around Sherlock's wrist in response. He held onto Sherlock desperately. The nurses moved around them, murmuring worriedly amongst themselves.

"Moriarty," John croaked, his eyes still searching the room frantically.

"Not here," Sherlock replied. "Lay back, John."

Sherlock was the last thing he saw before sleep overwhelmed him.

Sherlock didn't leave even once he was assured John would sleep for hours. John's fingers still held onto his wrist loosely. Spotted bruises blotched their way up the arm. Sherlock trailed the line of John's collarbone to the white bandage padding half of his chest and shoulder. Range of motion would be severely limited. He scratched his head with a sigh, taking stock of the other injuries (ribs broken, right foot smashed, bruises, bruises, like fingerprints all across his body). His chest felt tight as he looked down at John. Sherlock rubbed at his chest before pushing aside the unwanted emotions. Insignificant, as always. He pulled a chair close to the bed, sitting down and then propping his feet up on the rail beside John's. Quentin had been texting him since he left Baker Street. Might as well alert his brother to what had been missed.

He didn't leave John's side.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Everything was foggy, grey upon hazy wisps and smoky shadows. He thought he could just make out the shapes of people, but every time he got close to someone, they vanished. Disappear, disappear. Alone. He pulled his coat tighter and closed his eyes. Roof. He didn't remember opening his eyes. Still grey, but he knew this skyline. He looked at the phone in his hand, and then the body. Evil smiles and puddles. How was he here? Ah, yes, dream. He was due for a familiar haunting. Air rushed past his ears, whistling a sick little tune. He shut his eyes tight; he always hated this part. Another blink and he could see the crowd gathering. Interesting. The fall usually woke him up. He rarely relived this part. He started walking, but then he was running, pushing past the stunned bystanders. He wasn't motionless on the ground. Odd. Different.

His fingers reached out to grab a wrist, feeling for a pulse. The face was shadowed, blurry, unclear. Why couldn't he see? It was supposed to be him; he should see it. Then it was sharpening at the edges. No. John. John's eyes stared at him. No smiles, but red, red, red. It was staining the grey and his hands uselessly dipped into it. He wanted to replace it, put it back, but it was everywhere.

"You brought me into this."

Red wasteland, too bright and not bright enough. Not alone this time. John, his hair clotted with dark blood stains. His shoulder torn apart. The bruises printed on his skin. The betrayal in John's eyes needled beneath his skin until his blood was pulsing with it. His heart beat slower and slower. He never took his eyes off John.

Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly. He moved them from side to side, taking in the hospital room. No grey hazy edges here. He moved his head to take in the full area. They were alone. He drew in a deep breath, leaning forward towards the bed. Fingers slid over John's hand to his wrist. Pulse. Steady. His relief was silent. He rose, ignoring the ache drumming down his back. The window beckoned him, and he watched the umbrellas twirl through the streets. They'd been here for a week; today was the first day it rained.

"It's raining," he said.

John's respirations had increased. Awake then. The medication usually caused dreamless sleep, but they were decreasing the dosages. The doctor slept in restless and light naps. Sherlock's touch must have woken him.

"It's London, Sherlock." The thin voice did not match John, but Sherlock did not look. Behind his eyelids, he still saw red.

When the sheets betrayed John's awkward fidgeting, Sherlock turned.

"Pain?"

John just laid his head back on the pillow, shaking his head slightly.

"Fine."

"Liar," Sherlock muttered. Every line of John's body was tight and coiled.

The barest hint of a smile colored John's face. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, slowly meandering closer to the bed.

"You know I'm fine, Sherlock." John watched him carefully.

"Obviously," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "With physical therapy, you will regain most, but not all use of your shoulder. Ironically, you'll need to use your cane for a few months with the foot."

The thought of the cane troubled him. Sherlock took up a slow pace beside John's bed. One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, turn. His own waltz.

"Sherlock."

Serious tone. Unsettling. Sherlock felt his steps quicken the tempo.

"Sherlock."

He stopped and looked directly at John. Pale John against white sheets. Transparent edges worrying Sherlock. He had enough ghosts. John returned the stare through half-hooded eyes.

"Come here." The weak order returned Sherlock close to John's side. A deceptively strong hand grasped Sherlock's sleeve. "Sit. Relax. I know you haven't been sleeping."

He scooted his chair closer to the bedside, fighting the urge to pull out his phone and occupy his hands and mind. John's hand made a sharp gesture towards the bed. With a sigh and weak glare, Sherlock rested his cheek against the mattress. John's fingers stretched until they curled around a coat collar, fingertips whispering against the back of Sherlock's neck. If Sherlock arched into the touch, it was pointedly ignored.

John's fingers clutched his coat until he fell asleep.

The next time John awoke, Sherlock was asleep in his chair. John felt his lips twitch in a fond smile. Then he realized they were not alone. A young man sat in the chair beside the door, tapping away at his cell phone. John could feel his chest growing tight as he fought to keep his breathing steady. Stranger in the room . Was Sherlock really asleep or…? Was he just waiting for John to wake up? John's fingers curled around the sheets and he fervently wished for them to turn into his gun. He fought for another shaky breath, the wheeze causing the man to look up from his phone.

"Dr. Watson, are you alright?" the man uncurled himself from the seat and moved to Sherlock, shoving his shoulder roughly.

"Not sleeping," Sherlock snapped reflexively. Then his gaze went directly to John. "John?"

John reached out a hand, clutching Sherlock's tightly when he acquiesced. He hated the absolute weakness shaking through his body. John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Safe, safe, safe. He chanted the mantra in his head. Slowly, the band around his chest eased.

"—you shocked him into a panic attack. Get out!" John suddenly became aware of Sherlock's loud voice.

Sherlock and the stranger stood toe-to-toe. The stranger removed his glasses calmly, wiping them on the edge of his cardigan. The door opened and Lestrade slipped inside, glancing at the men before moving around them towards John. John raised a brow, using his good arm to motion to them. Lestrade just shrugged his shoulders.

"Really, Sherlock? You want me to leave? Do you know who Mycroft intends to babysit you when I leave?"

"I don't need a sitter." Petulance. John wished the stranger luck.

"You don't get to decide that."

"I can stay dead." John's jaw tightened at that.

"I can make it permanent." Lestrade turned his laugh into a cough.

Both men glared at him for the interruption. Sherlock crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Mummy would not approve." John felt his eyebrows rise.

"Oh dear god, Mummy?" Lestrade muttered. "I don't get paid enough for this."

"Mother never approved of anything."

John cleared his throat, watching the two men barely glance at him.

"Excuse me, hate to break this up, but—" John began.

"He's not important, John," Sherlock interrupted.

"And this is why you don't have friends." The stranger rolled his eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" John directed his question at the stranger.

"I work," a brief glance at Sherlock, "with ("For," Sherlock interjected) Mycroft Holmes. While Sherlock attends his mandatory…" ("Ha!" interrupted Sherlock) "…appointments at the Yard, I'll be here with you, Dr. Watson."

John did not want a stranger by his bed, even if that stranger did closely resemble Sherlock. He'd actually rather to go home.

"Thank you, but I think I can manage," John smiled briefly.

"We've intercepted three separate attempts to infiltrate this facility, Dr. Watson." John started at that, looking to Sherlock. "Protective custody is not merely a precaution, but a necessity."

"Sherlock, we should get going." Lestrade tapped his watch.

Sherlock paused, glancing at John. John pressed his lips together thinly, attempting to keep any statement that could be seen as a plea from leaving his mouth. Sherlock picked up his coat, pulling out his phone and placing it in John's hand.

"Just a precaution," Sherlock said quietly.

"You'll lift Lestrade's?" John asked under his breath.

"Probably his badge too. Unless you'd rather have his gun?" Sherlock answered, thumb brushing John's palm.

John nodded once. Sherlock swept towards the door, pausing only to look at the stranger. The man sighed.

"Go, Sherlock, and try not to dawdle. There are matters that require my immediate attention," he said.

"Oh, is your stock of exploding pens running low?" Sherlock huffed before striding out.

Lestrade followed quickly. John focused his attention on the stranger.

"Exploding pens?" he asked.

"Classified, Doctor. You understand," the man took his seat again.

"Right. I never caught your name," John replied.

There was a slight pause before the man answered.

"Quentin, Dr. Watson. Now, I suggest you rest. I doubt there will be much time for it once Sherlock returns."

"Why?" John replied.

Quentin's condescending smile cemented his relation to Sherlock in John's mind.

"We're still talking about the alleged resurrection of Jesus thousands of years later, Dr. Watson." He turned his attention to his phone. "Do you really think this won't make a few headlines?"

"There will be no living with him," John chuckled to himself.

He took Quentin's brief smile as agreement.


End file.
